


One Chance

by medieval_scribe



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: Battle of Bosworth Field, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:17:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2186199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medieval_scribe/pseuds/medieval_scribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you see a chance, you must take it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Chance

**One Chance**

_Ludlow  
August 1459_

The little boy cocks his dark head and studies the target before him. He's been shooting at the butts with his brother--his older, taller, more skilled brother--but today for once, he thinks he might have the advantage. The first to shoot six arrows quickest and closest to the target wins. He's already fired his first four and though he's the slower archer, his arrows have flown more true and landed closer to the mark. 

He nocks, holds, and chews his lips in supreme focus before he lets the arrow fly. The bow string twangs against his shoulder, but his missile flies straight. He's missed the target by just a few inches. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that his brother is already readying his next shot. He takes a moment to assess his brother's form, notes that his feet are set too far apart, that he's likely to miss the target. He's so intent on his scrutiny that he does not realize his brother has already nocked his bow. 

He panics and rushes to get his own shot off, but it in his hurry, he knocks over the quiver, scattering his arrows over the practice yard. 

His brother is triumphant and after he's done whooping and hollering, he gives the smaller boy a friendly pat on the head. "Better luck next time, Dickon." 

Dejected, Richard trudges off the yard and into the castle's great hall only to be greeted by the stern visage of his father. Remembering his manners, he bows stiffly and prompts a chuckle from the duke. 

"So you lost, I take it?" 

"Yes." 

"I was watching. You should have won." 

Excited by the unexpected attention, Richard begins talking, using his hands to animate his words. "It was a near thing. I almost had him. If only he'd--"

"Peace," the duke says. "You should have won, but you didn't. Do you know why?" 

Richard frowns and puts his mind to the problem but draws a blank. 

"You took your eye off the target. You were watching for other things, so your mind wandered and your brother took advantage." He ruffles the boy's head, trying to soften his words. "It is an important lesson of war and of life, Dickon. You must never take your eye off the target. When you see a chance, you must take it."

His father leaves soon after, mounting up with his men-at-arms and waving to his family from the gate, but his words linger long in Richard's seven-year old mind. 

\-----

_Bosworth Field  
August 1485_

Richard swears, his voice roaring through his visor and echoing around his head. His vanguard has faltered. Giving up the advantage of high ground, Norfolk had led him men straight into Oxford's flank to break the enemy. Instead, Norfolk had taken an arrow to the throat and his men, no longer able to hold the line, had scattered. 

He scans the field. War rages around him in fits and starts, pockets of men locked in tiny skirmishes, more tavern brawl than battle. At the rear, Northumberland's men are still and careful, not committing the rearguard to the action, not just yet. On the crest, the lords Stanley wait to see how the tide will turn, and just a few hundred feet away from them, surrounding only by a small personal guard is Henry Tudor himself. Isolated. The perfect target. 

Suddenly, he is a boy again, shooting at the butts with his brother. Suddenly, there is a hand ruffling his hair, a voice of wisdom that comes to him through the mists of time, shockingly clear. 

_You must never take your eye off the target. When you see a chance, you must take it._

One chance. That is all he has. It is all he needs. One chance, and he will win or he will die. 

"Francis," he hisses. "Go now. Tell Harry Percy to bring the rear around." 

He does not see his friend hesitate. Richard's eyes are squarely on the target. He crosses himself with his left hand and then raises his sword high in the air, signaling the charge. His mount thunders down the hillside followed by his men. The sound of hooves and armour and clattering weapons rents the air. 

He hears the rallying cry go up around him. " _A Richard! A York!_ " and a second passes before he realizes the sound is coming from his own mouth. He is hurtling toward Tudor, to put an end to this war, one way or another. 

One chance. One chance. One chance...

He sees the blow before he senses it, the dull ache near his head, the blood pouring down his back, and his last thought is of that day in Ludlow. _See, father? I never took my eye off the target._


End file.
